


The After-thinker

by sabcatt



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Character Study, Gen, M/M, Minor Violence, Post-Season/Series 01, Suicidal Thoughts, knowing things isn't all it's cracked up to be, mildly stream of consciousness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:14:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25645621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabcatt/pseuds/sabcatt
Summary: It's nothing so simple as wanting to die. If he wanted to die, it would be easy. It's making it matter that's the hard part.A post-s1 set of vignettes to answer the question: Ianto Jones says he knows everything. But how does he feel about it?
Relationships: Jack Harkness/Ianto Jones
Comments: 5
Kudos: 12





	The After-thinker

**Author's Note:**

> see end notes for more detailed warnings. take care of yourselves, kiddos.
> 
> this was written in a lack-of-medication-and-sleep induced haze over about three hours in one day. mostly me playing with... ianto's characterization. he's a slippery little bastard, tough to get a grip on, i think in part because he-the-character doesn't necessarily know how he wants to present himself. inspired by his refrain of "i know everything" in KKBB which we had never seen before and seem to not see again (idk, ive only watched thru the end of s2, if it comes back in coe, don't tell me). i just... grabbed on to the notion that he's still trying to figure out who he wants to be, who he wants people to see him as, whether being able to sum yourself up in a glib quip like that is really all that great. and ofc how he dealt with jack's disappearance. (spoiler alert: not well! oh i have fun torturing these characters.)
> 
> titled for epimetheus, greek titan of... basically being a dumbass. no i can't explain it but it makes sense i promise.

It’s nothing so simple as wanting to die.

If it were, it would be easy. They’re pinned down, crouched behind a fragment of what used to be a wall, him and Gwen, Tosh monitoring and running communications back in the Hub (where she’s safe, or _safer_ at least, thank God), Owen separated during the fight and off God-knows-where, not answering his fucking earpiece, and he shouldn’t even _be_ here, this is not his _fucking job_ (median age of retirement for field agents in London was 37, 47% of so-called retirements were actually deaths in the line of duty, or what passed for duty at least, scientific curiosity at the cost of anything, another 24% for physical injuries and 17% for mental health, long-term incidence of significant psychological disruption 91%, no such figures for Torchwood Three, probably because what they’d reveal would be enough to frighten off all but the most suicidal of comers) but the alien-enemies-of-the-week don’t care that he’s on the payroll as _general support_ (maybe he should change that? Much as Owen has taken on interagency administration and Gwen leads field missions, the internal paperwork has mostly been left to him, and if he’s going to be out risking his life on the regular as he has been, he might as well be getting paid for it, it’s not like the Crown seems to actually care what they spend, and that’s something that deserves further thought, maybe—) and then Gwen is nudging his shoulder with her own, nodding past him to where he can see Owen crawling, dragging himself behind his own piece of cover, and he holds up his earpiece—in two pieces now, Tosh will be delighted—and tosses them a two-fingered salute while he’s at it, and he shoves down a burst of (hysterical) laughter at the whole situation, him a fucking office boy out fighting _aliens_ in a slowly-collapsing building, while Gwen (ex-copper, almost like a TV show, or a movie) holds up a palm, points around their cover to where the alien enemies are still shooting at them, raises three fingers, two, one—

* * *

He’s always known that there’s more to Jack than meets the eye. There’d have to be, for the man who appears to flirt first, shoot second and ask questions never to remain in control of the branch of Torchwood in charge of the Rift. Seven years, the blink of an eye for an immortal man, is nonetheless a long time to hold oneself steady in the orbit of the Ministry of Defence, especially to hold out against the force of nature that was Yvonne Hartman.

(The gossip in the Tower was that Hartman hated Captain Jack Harkness of Torchwood Three, with stories about why ranging from the believable—a simple grudge over his utter lack of regard for decorum, which was almost as legendary as Hartman’s fervent belief in the Order Of Things—to the utterly outlandish—that they’d been secret lovers and she was still bitter over being jilted, that she’d been close to someone on Alex Hopkins’ team and wished they’d survived instead of Harkness. Ianto had done his best not to form any opinions on the matter, but now, he thinks it may have been exactly as simple as a difference of opinion. Hartman served for the glory of Queen and country, and Jack, well, he could hardly be said to serve. He put on a good front, was as dedicated to saving people as anyone on his team, more than anyone in Torchwood One had ever been, but. It was all a diversion. _Ianto_ was a diversion.

He supposed he deserved it, because he’d been the one using his body to distract Jack first, and if Jack had understood—had continued using Ianto as a distraction, just from a different topic than Ianto had originally intended—well, that was logical. Almost karmic. Painful, indubitably. Indescribably. But logical. He deserved it.)

But Hartman had—almost nothing to do with it, really. She’d made her mistakes, and Ianto had lived out the aftermath (first dragging himself through, day by day, all of it for the promise of someday, someday with _Lisa, all for Lisa,_ then caught in a tailspin when there was nothing left to even live for, and then there was Jack, who he hated almost as much as he loved, _except—_ ) just as he will continue living through this.

Tosh believes Jack will be coming back. He’s seen her file, her five-year contract, which she believes binds Jack to Torchwood just as thoroughly as it binds her. Because she was the first, the original member of their (Jack’s) team, and they’d had each other when there was nothing else for either of them. If Ianto’s been living for Jack since after Lisa’s death, Tosh has been living for him since years before that. And despite everything else she’s lost, Ianto knows that she’s never had to learn to live without—a purpose. He has.

Owen is afraid, so afraid that he doesn’t know what he believes, can't commit to believing anything, only that the key to not thinking about it, blessed amnesia, can be found at the bottom of a bottle. Ianto doesn’t begrudge him this. If drink would help him, or sex, or smokes, or anything, he would do it. But it doesn’t, and so he finds himself in a fugue, passing listlessly from flat to Hub to any of the various places the Rift drops debris that needs picking up and back again, the days blending together until he loses count of how many it’s been since he last slept properly, since he’s cooked or swept or picked up the dry cleaning. (But he never loses track of how long Jack has been gone. He’ll keep that count for the rest of his life, however long or short it may be, if he has to.)

Gwen doesn’t know how to stop thinking about anything, and she believes in Jack more than any of them. Which is why, when Ianto decides that Jack is never coming back, she’s the one he turns to.

(If he’s wrong—and _God_ how he wants to be wrong—she’ll tell him. And if she lies, he’ll know.)

He lays out his evidence like a lawyer presenting a case, a mathematician writing a proof: Jack knew the Doctor. Jack knew Torchwood was looking for the Doctor. Jack must have known who, or what, the Doctor is-was-will be, and he never shared. He must have known that Torchwood would never forgive him for keeping that information to himself. Torchwood was never his first priority.

He’s not coming back.

Gwen presses a hand to the front of her mouth, eyes wide. She’s trying to come up with an argument, figure out what to say to Ianto to convince him he’s wrong, but he’s not wrong, he knows he isn’t, and she knows too. Instead, she hugs him, and he holds himself rigid for a moment, before relaxing into it, because he’s so _tired_ and _lonely_ and _sick of being alone,_ and she’s not Jack and she never will be but he’s been through enough to know by now to take his comfort where he can get it.

She’s kind enough to pretend to ignore the tears.

* * *

Dying is easy. It’s making it matter that’s the hard part.

On Gwen’s count, they tumble through the rubble, shooting at the saggy-skinned aliens. They look like elephants, or maybe manatees, taller by half than a human and twice as angry, apparently. Their weapons are kinetic, emitting some sort of energy projectile with enough power to knock down a building, but the force seems to be spread over a large area—possibly it varies proportionate to the distance of the target from the gun?—which is a small mercy.

Ianto prefers his stun-gun to the real thing, but a pistol, in this case, offers the distinct advantage of distance. His ears are still ringing with gunshots when Gwen nods decisively and holsters her weapon, offers him and Owen a thumbs-up and shouts for Toshiko. At least her hearing seems to be as wrecked as his, for the moment. Should make communicating easier.

The three of them walk over to the fallen bodies of the aliens—not a species he’s ever seen before, or seen a profile on in the Archives. There are two of them, massive even in death, even lying still in equally massive puddles of orange blood.

He almost envies them.

“All right,” Gwen says, a little too loud against the silence, the still air unfamiliar in the aftermath of a firefight. “I’ll go liaise with the police, give them... the cover story. You two handle the bodies. Bring the car around. Once you’re done with those, check the area for any tech they might have brought with them, a ship... anything. I’ll meet you back here.” She turns to go, then looks back at Owen. “Don’t split up. Your comms are out and I don’t want to lose you— lose track of you, I mean.” _Lose you too,_ they all hear.

Owen grunts his assent and Gwen rushes off, already talking to Toshiko about the coverup they need to plan. No deaths this time, thankfully. No human deaths, at least. (More’s the pity. He’s so sick of waiting, of counting, of living.)

Ianto is lost in thought, morbid contemplation, looking at the alien bodies without really seeing. He’s pulled back to the present by Owen’s sharp “you coming or not?” just in time to see one of the bodies move, weapon barely raised but aiming at Owen, and he steps in front of it with barely a thought, not a moment spared to warn Owen or pull his own gun.

The hand holding the gun drops to the floor again, weapon making a slight clatter, and Ianto glances over his shoulder to where Owen has spun around, gun up and ready before he seems to register— _it’s just Ianto, no threat._

They look at each other for a moment, Owen’s eyes flickering down to Ianto’s feet, where there’s nothing he could have kicked to make noise, back up to his empty hands, half-raised in reflex (not the first time a gun has been pointed at him, and now apparently won’t be the last), over to the corpse.

Owen’s eyes come to rest on Ianto’s, and he sees the poorly-hidden worry in them not quite covered by the reflexive resentment, and he wants to scream.

Instead, he clears his throat, more for a lack of anything to say than a true need to do so, averts his eyes, mutters, “Must have not been… all the way dead.”

He chances a look back up and Owen is still watching him, brows furrowed. He wants to say something about this, Ianto knows, but doesn’t know what to say. Doesn't want to _spook_ him by pushing too hard, doesn’t want to let the moment pass so Ianto can go back to pretending he’s fine (and he is fine, he _is,_ and even if he wasn’t it’s not like there’s anything _Owen bloody Harper_ could do to help,) doesn’t want to have to deal with this at all, wants to go out and get drunk and fuck or fight someone all night so he gets lost in the sensation, doesn’t have to think about his half-suicidal, all-crazy coworker falling apart at the seams.

Ianto knows everything, and he is so tired of it.

“Come on,” Owen finally says, gesturing with his (still-cocked) gun towards the side entrance of the building, where the SUV is parked. “Work to do.”

**Author's Note:**

> further warnings: lots of suicidal ideation, mentions of sex that could be construed as dubiously consensual, mentions of substance abuse & other poor coping mechanisms, non-graphic gun violence, non-graphic mentions of blood, general poor mental health & lack of self-care
> 
> expect a part two at.... some point, this needs a coda and i have it vaguely planned out. also if you want to enable a longfic set early-mid s2 abt jack dealing with the aftermath of the YTNW, uhhhh hit me up bc i could rlly use a cheerleader pls.


End file.
